George raised his brows. “Could he have been protecting her—throwing you off the track?”
Jack shook his head. “No, he was as open as the sky. Besides, I can’t see Spencer supporting Kit in this little game.”
“True,” George conceded. “What did you tell him?”
“What could I tell him? That I’d lost his granddaughter, whom I vowed not a month ago to protect till death us do part?”
George’s lips twitched but he didn’t dare smile.
“After enduring the most uncomfortable conversation of my entire life, I raced back to the Castle. I hadn’t thought to ask my people about how she’d left, as she’d obviously made all seem normal, and I didn’t see any point in raising a dust. As it transpired, she’d told Lovis she’d been called to a sick friend’s side. She had my coachman drive her to the King’s Arms in Lynn on Sunday afternoon, from where, according to her, this friend’s brother would fetch her. I checked. She took a room for the night and paid in advance. She had dinner in her room. That’s the last anyone’s seen of her.”
George frowned. “Could someone have recognized her as Young Kit?”
Jack threw him an anguished glance. “I don’t know. I came here, hoping against hope she’d simply laid a trail and then gone to ground with Amy.” He stopped and sighed, worry etched in his face. “Where the devil can she have gone?”
“Why the King’s Arms?” mused Amy. Sipping her tea, she’d been calmly following the discussion. George turned to look at her, searching her face as she frowned, her gaze distant.
Then Amy raised her brows. “The London, coaches leave from there.”
“London?” Jack stood, stunned into stillness. “Who would she go to in London? Her aunts?”
“Heavens, no!” Amy smiled condescendingly. “She’d never go near them. She’d go to Geoffrey, I suppose.”
George saw Jack’s face and leapt in with, “Who’s Geoffrey?”
Amy blinked. “Her cousin, of course. Geoffrey Cranmer.”
The sudden easing of Jack’s shoulders was dramatic enough to be visible. “Thank God for small mercies. Where does Geoffrey Cranmer live?”
Frowning, Amy took another sip of tea. “I think,” she began, then stopped, her frown deepening. “Does Jermyn Street sound right?”
George dropped his head back and closed his eyes. “Oh, God.”
“It sounds all too right.” His jaw ominously set, Jack picked up his gloves. “My thanks, Amy.”
George swung about as Jack made for the door. “For God’s sake, Jack, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
Jack paused at the door, a look of long suffering on his face. “Never fear. Aside from giving her a good shaking, and one or two other physical treatments, I intend to spend a long, long time explaining things—a whole host of things—to my wife.”
At five o’clock, Geoffrey studied the elegant timepiece on his mantel and wondered what he could do to fill the time until dinner. He’d yet to come to a conclusion when the knocker on his door was plied with the ruthless determination he’d been expecting for the last three days.
“Lord Hendon, sir.”
Hemmings had barely got the words out before Jonathon Hendon was in the room. His sharp and distinctly irritated grey gaze swept the furniture before settling with unnerving calm on Geoffrey’s face.
Geoffrey remained outwardly unmoved, rising to greet his wholly expected guest. Inwardly, he conceded several of the points Kit had attempted to explain to him. The man standing in the middle of his parlor, stripping riding gloves off a pair of large hands and returning his welcoming nod with brusque civility, didn’t look the sort to be easily brought to the negotiating table. Now he could understand why Kit had felt it necessary to flee her home purely to gain her husband’s attention.
His knowledge of Jonathon Hendon was primarily based on rumor—not, he was the first to admit, a thoroughly reliable source. Hendon was a number of years his senior; socially, their paths had crossed infrequently. But Jack Hendon’s reputation as a soldier and a rake was close to legendary. Undoubtedly, had the country not been at war, he and Kit would have met much sooner. But how his slip of a cousin coped with the powerful male force currently making itself felt in all sorts of subtle ways in his parlor was beyond Geoffrey’s ability to guess.
“I believe, Cranmer, you have something of mine.”
The steel encased in the deep velvety tones brought Geoffrey’s well-honed defense mechanisms into play. Angry husbands had never been his cup of tea. “She’s not here.” Best to get that out as soon as possible.
Arrested, the grey gaze trapped him. Some of the tension left the large frame. “Where is she?”
Despite Kit’s instruction to tell her husband precisely where she was as soon as he appeared, Geoffrey found himself too intrigued to let the information go quite so easily. He waved his guest to a seat, an invitation that was reluctantly accepted. Smoothly, Geoffrey grasped a decanter and poured two glasses of wine, handing one to his guest before taking the other back to his armchair. “I’ve been expecting you for the past three days.”
To his surprise, a slight flush rose under his guest’s tanned skin.